


so i could kiss you like i did

by crossbar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018 World Juniors, Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Future Fic, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, USA Hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-21 22:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossbar/pseuds/crossbar
Summary: Sometimes, Trent will stare out the window, feet tucked under himself on the other end of the couch, and in the glow of the living room lamp he looks all of 17 years old again.In these moments, Adam feels more distant from him than ever, unable to read the look on his face, and wonders if Trent is thinking about them like he is. He waits, every night, for Trent to ask what the fuck he’s doing here, but the question never comes.





	so i could kiss you like i did

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to eme who pushed me through this fic. i love you so much and i could not have done this without you.  
> here are [some](https://www.instagram.com/p/s_D6zaNf8m/?taken-by=foxyclean) [pics](https://www.instagram.com/p/z3eqxlNf9j/?taken-by=foxyclean). i love them so much too.  
> title from norway by the brummies

“Come,” Adam says before he can second guess himself again. “Come to New York.”

On the other end of the phone, Trent is silent for too long, and Adam’s heart sinks.

Then, the voice he’s missed for years, raspy, but soft. So soft he almost misses it, the way Trent says, “Okay.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Trent says. “Okay.”

—

The first year had been hard. U17 year usually was, he knew, hearing the stories Charlie told him about the program every time he came home, but there were days where making it to the NHL felt like nothing but a pipe dream, the workload at NTDP too much for too little in return.

It was easier, he found, with Trent. The kid who never seemed to take anything but hockey seriously, who brightened every school day followed by skate then off ice lift then video then homework on an endless loop.

“Foxy,” he used to say, wrapping an arm around him in between sets of back squats following a hard hour and a half practice. “Never skip leg day. Gotta work hard so you have the biggest quads in the show. First team all thighs.”

And later: 

“Foxy,” papers scattered all across the table. “Look.” Pen on his upper lip like a mustache, the way Adam thought was funny back in third grade.

“Stop,” Adam said, flicking Trent’s nose. “Be serious.”

“No fun,” Trent would complain, reaching over and doodling penises all over Adam’s math homework.

That was the start, probably. All those days of grueling work that somehow always ended with Trent— his voice, smile, and ridiculous antics that always pulled a smile out of him too.

That was the start, but certainly not the end.

Not yet, anyway.

—

“Hi,” he says, stepping out of the car.

Trent’s Bruins hat is pulled low over his face, but it does nothing to hide the bags under his eyes. He’s a little taller than he was last time Adam saw him properly a few years ago at World Juniors. Bigger too, filled out more across the shoulders, muscled after years in the college weight room and one in the NHL. It makes him think, suddenly, about the way he used to run his fingers across Trent’s back, when there was a time he could still touch him like Trent was his. 

“Hi,” Trent says back, and shifts awkwardly on his feet. 

“How was your flight?” he asks, not pointing out how tired Trent looks but worried nonetheless. He wants to reach out and hug Trent, feel the stretch of the thin white t-shirt across his chest, but sticks his hands in his pockets instead so he doesn’t do something dumb. Something even dumber than calling Trent out of the blue and telling him to come out to Long Island.

“Fine,” Trent says, pulling his hat off and running a hand through his hair, longer than he usually keeps it. “LaGuardia is always a shitshow, though.”

“Yeah,” he says. He gestures at the backpack and duffel at Trent’s feet. “Is that all you have?” 

Trent shrugs, bends down and shoulders his bags. “Short notice,” he says. 

Adam frowns, and opens up the trunk. “You didn’t have to come so soon,” he says as Trent loads the car. “When I called yesterday I really just meant maybe sometime this summer.”

Trent closes the trunk, a little forcefully, and walks around to the passenger side.

“No, I know,” he says, and looks at Adam over the top of the car, steady. “I wanted to.”

—

Adam’s billet family had absolutely adored Trent. They fell just like everyone else had, Adam included, for his easy going attitude and charm. 

Soon, Trent had found himself a semi permanent spot at their dinner table, over whenever he had the time. 

“I’m trying to get away from Chad,” Trent would say as he pulled his chair in.

Then he would dig his elbow into Adam’s ribs just to be annoying, before giving him that smile of his. 

On one of those nights, Trent was telling a story, gesturing wildly with his fork, when his elbow knocked over Adam’s glass of water, spilling it and soaking his shirt.

“Oops,” he’d said, before Adam rolled his eyes and hauled him up. 

“C’mon,” Adam said, pulling him by the arm. “I’ll get you another shirt. You're so embarrassing.”

Upstairs in his room, he reached into his drawer and fished a shirt out before tossing it over his shoulder to Trent without looking.

“Weird brag,” Trent said.

When he turned around, Trent’s wet shirt was in a heap on the floor, and he stood, bare chested, shockingly pale in the dark. And in his hands, a crimson Harvard shirt. 

Adam felt himself flush at the thought of Trent in a shirt that was so obviously _his,_ but willed himself to roll his eyes anyway. 

“Better than the ugly red Wisco shirts you wear all the time.”

Trent had laughed, and pulled the shirt over his head. It was a little tight on him, straining at the width of his shoulders, and Adam swallowed and looked away.

Later, Trent caught him as they cleared their plates from the table. 

“I’ll wash this,” he said, plucking at the shirt, right where the word HARVARD sat above the shield. “I’ll get it back to you next week.”

He didn’t know what made him do it, but he shrugged and said, “Keep it,” then punched Trent in the arm gently. “Looks good on you, anyway.”

The next week, Trent tossed him something when Adam opened the door for him before dinner.

“For you,” Trent said, watching eagerly as Adam unfolded it. 

It was a shirt, soft and navy blue, with Trent’s twitter handle, @tfreddy42, on it in white block letters. Adam stared at it, running fingers across it, at a loss for what to say, partially because of the ridiculousness of it all, but partially because that was as sentimental as it got with Trent, probably. 

“I got it custom made,” Trent said, bouncing on his toes. “For you,” he said again. “‘Cuz you gave me your shirt, and I thought it was only fair I gave you something too.”

“Freddy,” Adam said, trailing off. 

“Foxy,” Trent mocked, smiling wide. “You can thank me later,” he said. “C’mon, let’s eat.”

When he toed off his shoes and bounded into the kitchen, Adam had no choice but to follow, shirt still in his hands. 

—

The ride home is long, much longer than he was used to as a kid going from the airport back to Jericho.

He’s moved now, spent his first few NHL paychecks on a nice beach house in the Hamptons, a little too big for his taste, but still beautiful on its own, right on the water. It’s nice being away, secluded almost, in a new town that still feels fairly close to home. Lonely, for sure, but he’s made the drive back to Jericho to see Andrew with his nieces and his parents plenty just to pass the time.

Next to him, Trent is asleep, head propped up by his wrist in a way that’s sure to hurt later. He debates waking him for a second, but then catches the soft lines of his face, slack with sleep, freckles made stark by the summer sun, the curve of his mouth, the slope of his jaw and the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The way he looks peaceful, picture perfect, despite the awkwardness and exhaustion of the morning. 

So instead, he tears his eyes away, and focuses on the road ahead.

—

Sometimes, Adam still thinks about the first time. 

The feel of the basement carpet, soft against his palms, legs tangled with Trent’s, a socked foot against his calf as they rolled over. The taste of chocolate on his tongue, warm skin on his fingertips as he slid his hands up and up, heat of Trent’s mouth on his, bottom lip plush and warm.

Their first kiss had been to the sound of the NHL14 background music on an endless loop, on a Tuesday night after a special teams practice where their powerplay just wasn’t clicking, under the dim lights of a suburban house just outside Ann Arbor. 

Trent pulled back first, eyes wide. 

“We should keep doing that,” he said, mouth swollen and red. “That was fun.”

Adam watched him run his tongue across his lip, and agreed. 

He remembers the sound of Trent’s laugh, muffled against Adam’s mouth as he leaned in again too fast.

—

“Sorry about the mess,” Adam says as he shuts the door behind them. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” _I wasn’t expecting you at all,_ he doesn’t say. 

“It’s fine,” Trent says, not turning around. His bags are still in his hand, but he’s facing the brick fireplace, eyes trailing over the row of photographs.

A few with his family: Andrew’s graduation, his own when he finally finished his degree the past summer, on the beach when he was a kid. His nieces, one under each arm, cradled by his side on the couch, all three of them laughing at something just out of the frame. 

Others of hockey: U18’s, World Juniors, the Beanpot, his first NHL goal. Teammates scattered here and there. Ones of the boys at NTDP that feel like ages ago now, the guys surrounding him and Trent, when they still were— whatever they were. He wonders if Trent hurts now like he does when he sees it. Wonders if Trent misses it too like he does, understands the reason he still keeps them up, or the reason he bothered to put them up in the first place despite it all. 

“Nice place,” Trent remarks, eyes still lingering on the pictures. 

“Thanks,” Adam says, awkward, and walks forward until he’s next to Trent. “You can shower and stuff or like go back to sleep, if you want. I can show you the guest room and you’re obviously welcome to do whatever with the space there. You’ll have your own bathroom, too.”

“Sure,” Trent says, but doesn’t look at him.

Adam sighs, and turns to go up the stairs, relieved when he hears Trent following behind him.

—

They got better as the year went on, both on the ice and in bed. It was easy, really, just two 16 year olds perfecting one touch breakout passes one second and fumbling their way through rushed blowjobs the next.

It was a good day. No practice, no game, just a Sunday spent lazing around, losing round after round of CoD: Zombies and snacking in between slow rounds of sex. Chocolate milk and pretzels. Protein and carbs. 

“Cuddle me,” Trent demanded, after. 

Adam grudgingly rolled over, pulling Trent up so he could put his head on Adam’s chest where he was still catching his breath.

Trent pouted, jutting his lip out in a way that was adorable. “ _Cuddle me_ ,” he said again, more forcefully this time, and manhandled Adam until he got both arms wrapped around Trent.

Adam huffed, couldn’t help but smile at the way his breath made Trent’s hair fly up in wisps. “You are so needy,” he said.

Trent tilted his head up, smiling at him. “You love it,” he said, eyes shining.

“Yeah,” Adam said, a little too honest. “I’m gonna miss you this summer.”

Trent rolled his eyes. “You mean you’re just gonna miss getting your dick wet,” he said, patting Adam’s cheek. “Don’t worry. With this face, you won’t be missing me for long.” 

It was probably a bad time, then, to tell Trent that he had feelings for him. To ask what exactly they were. To admit that he didn’t want anyone else over the summer. And not just for the summer. Maybe a little foolishly, a little prematurely, Trent was all he wanted for the long run. 

So he kept his mouth shut, pressed his nose into Trent’s hair, and breathed in softly in the comfortable silence.

Trent’s arm tightened around him as he shifted. The sun was setting, and his billet parents would be done with dinner soon. Trent would stay, make everyone laugh, then leave to do the same in his house with Chad and the Millers. And the next day, they’d have school, practice, lift, work, all over again. 

Trent would still be there tomorrow. 

—

There are things that are still the same.

Trent doesn’t drink coffee. Before, he used to say he hated the taste and never needed the energy anyway, always full to the brim with it already. Trent always liked sweet things, always tasted of them, too. Now, at the kitchen counter, he pours himself a glass of orange juice.

Trent slathers his eggs in ketchup. It’s disgusting, and Adam used to chirp him constantly for it at every meal. “Do you want something to eat with your ketchup?” he used to ask, and got smacked for it every time. He doesn’t say anything now, just passes the bottle over when Trent asks.

Trent dresses almost exclusively in Lulu, a striped gray shirt on with cargo shorts, the logo gleaming in the light. It was ‘sty’ back then, still is, he guesses. But the hours they used to spend in that store drove him absolutely crazy, watching Trent decide which color headband to get, if he needed another blue golf polo. He’d give nearly anything for another one of those days, now.

It’s comforting, knowing that even in the uncertainty he felt when he first called Trent up, there are still things he knows for sure.

But then, there are the reminders that things have changed, jolting him out of whatever daydream he falls into when he starts to get too comfortable.

Trent is a morning person now, it seems. Even though his hair is a mess the way it always used to be in the mornings, he was up far before Adam was, had gone for a run down the beach and was freshly showered already by the time Adam stumbled down the stairs at near 9.

Trent watches his diet more closely, though that may be attributed more to the NHL than anything. Only two strips of bacon line his plate where there once would've been six or seven. The rest go cold in the pan, and Adam feels foolish as he tosses them out. 

What stands out the most though, is how quiet Trent is now. Maybe because of the tension still left between them, maybe because of the time that’s passed. Maybe because all the things Adam used to criticize him for have bled out of him as he aged. Either way, he has never known a Trent that wasn't talking non-stop, bouncing off the walls, and cracking terrible jokes, even at the most inappropriate of times. It isn't so much that Trent seems uncomfortable now, just… calm. Settled. 

It’s probably good, he thinks, that these differences stick out so obviously. Otherwise he’d forget, would give into desire and lean over and run a hand through the still damp locks of hair and kiss Trent gently in the morning glow over breakfast getting cold.

The differences are reminders of his mistakes. His regrets.

—

Trent showing up at his door just 15 minutes after he got back to Ann Arbor loosened the knot that had been sitting tight in his stomach all summer. 

“Hi,” Trent said, pressing him up against the door of his bedroom, nosing at his jaw. Around them, Adam’s bags were still unpacked.

Adam’s response was lost in the press of Trent’s mouth to his. 

A few moments later, just as Adam’s lips started to go numb, Trent pulled back, running hands up and down Adam’s arms.

“I missed this,” Trent said. “I missed you.”

“Me too,” he replied, feeling emotion bloom in his chest. 

“I mean it,” Trent said softly, leaning into him again, touchy in a way he never was last year. It made Adam wonder what had changed since they’d been apart, if Trent had hooked up this summer like Adam did, and if he did, if it was just as subpar compared to what they had last year to him. 

“I wanna keep doing this,” Trent said, and leaned down again.

Maybe Adam should’ve asked what ‘this’ meant, but there was no reason right then, no rush, to ruin the moment. He sighed into the feel of Trent’s lips on his instead, running a hand through Trent’s hair, blonder and softer from the summer sun, relieved he still got to have it anyway.

—

They settle into a routine fairly quickly. 

Before the sun is even up properly, Trent goes for a run. The one time Adam had been woken by the sound of the back door closing after him, he’d rolled out of bed and sat at the kitchen table overlooking the back porch, watching the way Trent disappeared down the shore. He was still staring when Trent came back, out of breath and red from exertion, sand covering his calves and toes. Trent had asked him, then, although a little reluctantly, whether Adam would want to come with him in the future. Adam shook his head, made some comment about resting his knee, a lingering injury from the end of his rookie year. In reality, Adam could tell the runs in the morning weren’t purely conditioning, but rather offered Trent a chance to be alone. To clear his head in what had to be a confusing environment for him. 

So while Trent runs, Adam showers and makes breakfast for them both, experimenting with different smoothie combinations and styles of eggs. He keeps a list in his head of the things Trent likes and doesn’t like, throwing out the coconut shavings and almond butter and reminding himself to buy more hemp seeds and strawberries. They’ll have to go on a grocery run soon too, and Adam will have to start buying enough to provide for two professional athletes instead of one.

Lunch is either something simple Adam can heat up on the stove or the grill, or driving into town in his brand new Jeep with the top down. Adam’s never been the best cook, but years later, Trent’s still far worse than him, so they settle for the overpriced restaurants, making small talk in between bites of salad and chicken. Adam fills him in on Calgary, on living with Matty, and on their short lived playoff runs. Three seasons doesn’t feel like a long time at all, but 82 games a season, playoffs three years straight with nothing but a measly 8 playoff wins to show for it is disheartening. He watched their first playoff series from the press box, his rookie year, knee throbbing and wishing desperately he could be out there as the Ducks potted goal after goal.

Trent tells him about Charlie and Anders, about finding his way during his rookie season on a surging, young Bruins team, about growing into life in Boston— a city that used to be Adam’s. It’s a city that gave and took, a city he won and lost in, and now, it’s city that took something he lost a long time ago. That fact doesn’t escape him, and he suspects it doesn’t escape Trent either. 

The time between lunch and dinner is spent in the gym and on the water. They’re both grateful for a break from the ice, but they’ve done this long enough to know the offseason is time to bulk up and regain the weight they’ve lost in the past eight months. Adam has to make a conscious effort to not openly stare at Trent in weight room, and he swallows every time he gives Trent a spot as they bench press and squat far more weight than they did when they used to do this together at NTDP. 

It must not be normal, he thinks, how attracted he still is to Trent. 

Afterwards, he throws a football around with Trent on the beach. When they get tired, they lie in silence. Adam falls asleep to the sound of the tide, hyper aware of the way Trent is sprawled out close enough to touch.

Dinner is the same as lunch, and after, they drink, the TV on low in the background. They talk about meaningless things and crack open bottle after bottle until it’s late, until Trent slurs his words and they fall into an inevitable silence. Sometimes, Trent will stare out the window, feet tucked under himself on the other end of the couch, and in the glow of the living room lamp he looks all of 17 years old again. 

In these moments, Adam feels more distant from him than ever, unable to read the look on his face, and wonders if Trent is thinking about them like he is. He waits, every night, for Trent to ask what the fuck he’s doing here, but the question never comes.

So they don’t talk about it, and the house is quiet more often than not.

—

Drunk off Griffin’s cheap vodka, Trent had suggested it in the early hours of the morning. 

“Let’s get a fish. New addition to our family,” Trent said, poking at Adam’s shoulder.

Sleepy and a little wasted himself, Adam had mumbled in agreement, before tugging Trent closer and promptly falling asleep curled around him. 

The next day, Trent dragged him, still hungover, along with Chad, to the local Pet Emporium and made him pick out a fish. 

“You were serious,” Adam said in somewhat disbelief, pressing at his temples.

“Yes,” Trent said, running his fingers along the glass, tapping at the rows and rows of goldfish. “Help me pick one.”

Chad eyed the both of them, unimpressed as ever.

For an excruciating 15 minutes he watched Trent try to decide between two nearly identical looking tiny orange fish, swimming aimlessly in their tanks. 

Finally, they walked out of the store, their new fish swimming calmly in a clear bag. Trent named it ‘Beyoncé’. 

“ _Her,_ Foxy,” Trent said seriously. “Stop calling Beyoncé ‘it’.”

Adam rolled his eyes, shoving at Trent gently in the parking lot. “Why does it matter anyway? It’s a fucking fish, for fuck’s sake.”

“It’s _our fish_ ,” Trent said, mildly _offended_ , cradling the bag close to his chest. “That’s why it matters, Foxy.”

It said a lot about the level of stupidity they had reached, then, as well as how absolutely gone he was on Trent, when he felt his expression go soft. He watched Trent lift the bag up, smiling dumbly and making faces at the fish. _Their fish,_ he thought, mind still stuck on the way Trent had said _‘our_ ’, helpless to the fondness bubbling up inside him and his own smile tugging at his lips. 

Looking back, it was ridiculous that it was right then that Adam most clearly felt himself falling in love for the first time— on an abnormally nippy spring day, standing in a Pet Emporium parking lot, of all places, watching Trent do something stupid and so typically _Trent_.

Chad cleared his throat, and the moment broke. 

In Trent’s hand, their fish, _Beyoncé, Christ,_ blinked stupidly up at him. Adam couldn’t help but agree. 

—

“You’re not the kid you used to be,” Adam says suddenly during lunch one day. It’s something he’s been thinking since he pulled up to the airport terminal a week ago, but he doesn’t know what it is that makes him say it right then. Maybe just the comfortable silence they’re in now, outside on a restaurant patio, wind and salt in their hair.

Trent looks up from his salad, raising his eyebrow in a way that says, _so we’re gonna talk about this now?_

“No?” he asks, and tilts his head. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

Adam shrugs. It’s unreasonably hot out today, and he traces the condensation of his drink with his finger, watches as the droplets pool on the table. 

“I don’t know. You’re just not so— so unfocused, I guess. You’re more serious now, I think.” He doesn’t look at Trent as he says it, not sure what exactly he’s afraid of.

Trent hums, but doesn’t respond.

When Adam looks up again Trent is still watching him, chewing thoughtfully.

He finishes his bite, and squints at Adam in the sun, smirk on his face. Just like old times.

“I guess you’re not either,” Trent says. 

“And for what it’s worth,” he continues a beat later, looking down again. “I think it’s a good thing.”

—

“Go to prom with me,” Adam said. It wasn’t a question at all, but he hoped it didn’t sound like as much of a plea to Trent as it did to him.

Trent looked up from his textbook, pen still in his mouth.

Adam thought he would probably remember everything about this moment. The gleam of the photographs perched on Trent’s bedside table, the soft patter of rain on the window across the room, the music, soft and muffled in Trent’s earbuds. The way the light from the desk lamp caught the chain around Trent’s neck he always wore, tracing the line of it to the cross he knew was hidden under the fabric of Trent’s USA long sleeve. The smell of the cologne Trent used, a little too stifling in Trent’s tiny bedroom. The smattering of freckles across his nose, the turn of his mouth, the catch of teeth on his lip. The impossibly soft look in Trent’s eyes. 

Years later, he would come to convince himself it wasn’t real, just a trick of the light, that there was nothing special in the way Trent looked at him when he said ‘ _okay’_. 

And now, in the rare moments he catches Trent staring back at him, he thinks he might’ve been wrong to think that.

Trent didn’t go with him to prom, in the end, but it was okay. Adam got him alone later, dates long gone, got to peel Trent’s ridiculous baby blue suit off of him in the darkness of his room, revelling in the sloppy slide of Trent’s mouth against his own. They were very much drunk by then, loose from too much pilfered vodka and from the after party. When they tumbled to the bed, he was unable to stop himself from giggling as he pressed kisses down Trent’s stomach, and he couldn’t remember a time he had ever been happier.

—

“I didn’t think you were serious enough, back then,” Adam says. He doesn’t mean for it to come out in a bad way, just an honest observation he had. It sounds accusatory though, or like an excuse.

“I wasn’t,” Trent agrees, shrugging, as he wipes his brow after a set of cleans. He doesn’t seem offended at all, and it surprises Adam.

“I didn’t think you could handle it. And I didn’t think you cared.”

Trent smiles at him, wry. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Are we just listing things wrong with me when I was a dumb high school kid now?”

Adam shakes his head. He feels like he’s doing this all wrong, that Trent still doesn’t get it.

“I was scared, then. And I just think I might have been wrong,” he says, and steps forward to help re-rack the weights.

“About what?”

“About all of it,” Adam answers. “About you.” He feels like he’s been much more truthful these past few days than he was for years. Something about seeing Trent again in his home, still the same guy but different all at once, makes it easier, probably.

“I think we were both dumb back then,” Trent says honestly. His hands brush Adam’s as he passes him a plate. “But I think we both did care, too.”

“Yeah,” Adam says, watching the trickle of sweat down Trent’s collarbone, follows the line of his shoulder to the swell of his biceps, then to the flex of his hands, and swallows. “I’m beginning to realize that, now.”

Trent catches him staring and raises an eyebrow, uses the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. 

“Good,” he says, and leaves it at that.

—

“Calgary, huh?” Trent said, clapping him on the back, horribly underdressed in just a polo and khaki shorts. He’d had his chance already, gone through the whole process in his nice suit yesterday, first rounder and everything. 

“Calgary,” he repeated dumbly, still numb from it all. His hand was cramping from signing so many things, head spinning from endless interviews, draft hat still clutched in his hand and jersey still on over his suit.

That was probably the first time that it truly hit him that they were going to be apart, when the uncertainty of what they had first started to manifest into a tangible fear. Two years later, and he still had no fucking clue what they were. What they were going to be. If there was even going to be a ‘them’ after this. When he squeezed Trent back, his hands shook, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the adrenaline and happiness or the way his world was slowly starting to fall apart.

That night, he snuck out of his hotel room. It was nearing midnight when he found Trent leaning against the vending machine in the hallway on the second floor, exactly where he said he would be. Trent was in old Nationals sweatpants and a USA t-shirt, and he suddenly felt very overdressed, still in his dress shirt and pants from dinner with his family. 

“C’mere,” Trent said, tucking his phone into his pocket and straightening up. “Lemme congratulate you properly, you fuckin’ stud.” 

Adam smiled. “Coming from the big time first rounder, sure,” but stepped forward anyway so Trent could run his hands up and down his chest and kiss him, hard. 

All he could think about though, was the way Trent looked the night before in a Bruins jersey, bright lights from above shining down on him as cameras flashed. He was a star, a surprise at 29th overall, but a star, nonetheless. Adam loved him, before, he knew, and he loved him then. And now, Adam didn’t know how much longer he had to love him properly. 

He pulled back.

“Freddy,” he said, dropping his hands from where they had been resting on Trent’s shoulders, and stopped. What was he supposed to say? _‘I love you’_? 

“I wanna keep doing this,” he said instead. “With you. Just you, this time.”

Trent grinned at him. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah, me too,” and reeled him back in.

It felt far too easy, then, and a part of him wishes Trent had hesitated a little, even, just so he’d have the comfort that Trent put some semblance of thought into his answer. But even so, the relief was immense and soothing, and for that moment, he let himself get lost in the feel of Trent in a silent hotel hallway in Buffalo, together for the last time for a long while.

—

The drive to and from town isn’t far, but it’s long enough to make it awkward each time they have nothing to say to fill the silence that often falls between them.

Adam reaches out, suddenly, and turns the radio down. 

“Would you have been upset, before, if I had told you everything I was afraid of back then?” 

Trent exhales harshly, and out of the corner of his eye Adam can see the cute face he makes when he’s thinking too hard. 

“Honestly, I have no idea what I would’ve done,” he says, running a hand through his hair, looking straight ahead at the road. “I didn’t know you were scared at all, I guess.”

Adam waits until he slows to a stop at a red light before he speaks again. 

“I’m sorry for not being honest before.”

Trent is silent for a bit. The top is still down, and Adam takes a second to watch the light breeze ruffle Trent’s hair as he looks out the window. They sit in silence, save for the soft buzz of the country music on the radio. He can’t hear what song it is, only knows that it reminds him of summer nights, spent out on the shore with Charlie and Jeremy and Andrew, the days he didn’t have a care in the world.

“You should’ve told me,” Trent says, finally. “I spent a long time thinking it was something I’d done.”

“That wasn’t fair of me,” Adam says. “I’m sorry.” It feels very mature that he was able to apologize, but he still can’t bring himself to be entirely truthful. _I might’ve been in love with you_ , he thinks and doesn’t say, just like he failed to do time and time again before.

Trent doesn’t say that it’s okay or anything like that, because it’s not, Adam guesses. He broke Trent heart, and there’s nothing remotely okay about that. But Trent doesn’t say he forgives him, either, and that’s worse, because Adam is unsure if Trent ever will. 

The light turns green, and Adam goes.

—

Boston was not Ann Arbor. 

In Boston, Adam went to class sometimes instead of everyday, drank in the seniors’ rooms and didn’t have to worry about his billet mom walking in, and played hockey with people he didn’t know quite yet but was starting to love. Adam flitted from dorm to dorm, didn’t hook up despite all the chirps from the guys, and most of all, missed Trent something fierce. 

And that was the thing. Trent, all the way in Wisconsin, had Kunzy and JD, who he cuddled with on team bus rides and when it got cold, had guys and girls falling for him at every corner, just like Adam did, had parties and a good time. If there were nights he stayed up despite the exhaustion of the rigorous college athlete lifestyle, thinking about Adam as Adam did about Trent, there was nothing to show for it.

In Boston, for the first time in a long time, Adam didn’t have Trent.

But he did have a new group of guys in Floody and Lewpac, and older guys like Jimmy and Kerfy who took him under his wing, he had brand new crimson uniforms and gear, and he had hockey. He always had hockey. Besides, Trent was always just a text, a phone call, a FaceTime, or a Snapchat away. And for now, that would have to be enough.

—

He doesn’t mean to snoop, is the thing. 

He’s an adult now, and he does his own laundry here since doesn’t have the campus laundry service he did at Harvard or Mrs. Giordano to pick up after him like he did rookie year. So he asked if Trent had clothes to wash to save a load, and headed towards the guest room when Trent waved a hand in the general direction of the stairs.

Trent was just as messy as he used to be, and Adam couldn’t help but smile at the way his things were scattered everywhere, already taking up space in Adam’s house as easily as Trent always had. On the dresser— an iPad, half empty bottles of water, earbuds, wrappers from protein bars. And on the floor, a mound of clothes that Adam knelt down to sort through.

A flash of crimson immediately caught his eye, a shade he would recognize anywhere, although it was slightly faded from the wash. His hands were strangely steady as he pulled it out from the pile. The same Havard lettering, the same logo he remembered, fabric softer now, worn. He couldn’t help but notice the way it smelled like Trent now, years later. He’d thrown out the shirt Trent gave him a while ago, and that feels significant, suddenly.

That’s how Trent finds him, some time later, still kneeling on the ground, shirt threaded between his fingers. 

He looks up, at a loss for words. Trent’s looking at him sadly, and kneels next to him. Their shoulders brush, but neither of them make a move to shift away. He keeps hoping Trent will say something, anything, to explain and maybe quiet the thudding of his heart in his ears. 

But Trent doesn’t say anything at all, just gently takes the shirt out of his hands and puts it in the laundry hamper, and carries the rest of the clothes down the stairs. 

—

Trent’s voice was too loud on the phone, words cut off and vowels exaggerated. 

“Fox— Foxyyy,” he said, and Adam winced. 

“Hey Freddy,” he replied, picking at a thread on his sweatpants. In the harsh fluorescent light of his dorm room, he shivered, suddenly feeling very alone. 

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, really,” Adam said. Then, softer, “I just missed you.”

“Aww,” Trent cooed. There was a noise, like he was bringing his phone closer to hear him better. “That’s so cute.”

Adam looked up, blinking at the ceiling, waiting for Trent to say something more, but all that came was a giggle on the other end of the line.

He hadn’t heard Trent’s voice in nearly a month, busy with the hectic start of the season. The weekend schedules were proving to be tougher than he thought, combined with the time commitment of daily practices and team lifts on top of schoolwork and tests. He was at _Harvard,_ after all, and anything less than great wouldn’t be tolerated. So he had snuck away from the guys early tonight to stalk back to his room alone and find the time to finally talk to Trent. Maybe it was stupid and childish of him to expect that he could call him up after all this time and have a serious conversation.

He wished he could be like those people in movies who said sappy things like _‘hearing your voice was all I needed’._ Instead all he wanted was more, missing Trent so much it hurt. Maybe it was selfish of him to expect the same desperation from Trent.

“I’ll let you go now,” Adam said, reluctantly. “You sound like you’re having fun.” 

“Okay,” Trent said brightly. “Parker’s calling me over anyway, I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Adam said. “Later.”

The call later never came, and pretty soon he learned to stop waiting. 

—

“Did you ever miss me?” Adam asks.

Trent doesn’t look away from the TV. 

“All the time,” he says, so open and honest it hurts. He doesn’t specify whether he means before or after it all, but Adam suspects they both just mean _always._ Adam clenches his jaw, feeling his fingers do the same around the glass in his hand.

—

In the end, it was a lot of things.

It was the distance, cliché, but not any less true. It was the time, the hectic schedule of both their lives that revolved around the ice and their teams. It was classes and schoolwork and passing tests to be able to play. It was the parties and the kickbacks and the drinking. It was the push and pull of the fiery possessive streaks where he’d call Trent and ask who that girl was on his Snapchat story, and the days he didn't have the time or energy to send a goodnight text. And sometimes, it was Trent, who he could never manage to hold a serious conversation with about anything, always too caught up in the rush and joy of life.

It was the reason Adam was drawn to him, at first, and it was part of the reason they were torn apart later.

They still did talk, but each time, the _miss you_ ’s that peppered each sporadic call got more and more strained until it seemed to fall out of the conversation entirely.

 _We’re just busy_ , Adam thought. _Hockey comes first. It has to._ He hoped Trent felt the same.

—

His mom calls when she finds out Trent’s in town, and demands Adam bring him home. 

When Adam sheepishly tells Trent, Trent just shrugs.

“Sure,” he says. And that’s that.

Jericho is the same, the brick house and cul de sac he used to play street hockey in with Andrew familiar. His mom, ever knowing, raises an eyebrow at him when she see Trent trailing behind him through the door, but doesn’t say anything otherwise. 

“Trent!” His mom exclaims anyway, and pulls him in for a hug. “Oh honey, you’re so much bigger now.” 

Trent laughs awkwardly, and his dad shakes Trent’s hand. “I still remember when you two were just 16,” he says, and shakes his head. “Now you guys are out there playing professional hockey. Time sure flies, doesn’t it?” 

Adam catches the way the smile on Trent’s face dims slightly at that, and his own hands clench by his side. 

“Anyway,” his dad says, reeling Trent in with an arm across his shoulders. “How’s the family been?”

They stay for dinner, and Trent says thank you way too many times, praises his mom’s cooking, polite as ever. Trent sits next to him, and Adam doesn’t miss the way his leg jitters under the table. He wishes he could cross his ankle over his like he used to, but as it is, he clenches his teeth and hopes for it to be over soon.

Close to 8, they get ready to leave, and he catches Trent looking at his old baby pictures on the mantle, shadow of a smile on his face. 

Adam steps over to him and peers down at himself as a baby, pudgy in the bath with Andrew, in his old Gulls uniform, Jeremy and Charlie by his side, on his dad’s shoulders, smiling so wide his eyes are squeezed shut. 

“You were a cute kid,” Trent murmurs. “Shame you got ugly,” he adds after, and laughs when Adam hits him.

It’s silent for a few moments. Adam can hear the sound of his mom cleaning up in the kitchen, running water and the clatter of plates.

“Did you ever think you’d get here?” Trent asks him.

“I used to think I could have anything I wanted if I worked hard enough for it,” Adam says. “If I wanted it enough.” It’s probably a far more cryptic answer than Trent wanted, but he thinks Trent gets it in the way he looks at him, eyes sad in a way that Adam’s come to get used to.

“Not anymore?” Trent asks.

Adam thinks of all the games he lost his sophomore year, of cleaning out his dorm room for the last time, of the way his knee buckled under him, of every failed playoff run, of the man standing shoulder to shoulder with him. 

“Not anymore,” he says softly, and doesn’t miss Trent’s shuddery exhale. 

“Come on,” he continues, and nods his head towards the door. “We should get going.”

—

The night Trent ended things, he cried. 

It was nothing dramatic, just these hitches of breath that were impossible to miss even over the static of the phone. It was the first time he’d ever heard Trent cry.

“I think it’s better like this. It just wasn’t working anymore,” he said, muffled through his tears.

“I’m sorry,” Adam said, one hand clutching at his phone, another stuffed in his coat pocket. It was snowing outside, hard, and it left the Yard in an eerie silence. Just him, outside his dorm, shivering and hurting, and Trent, halfway across the country, crying enough for the both of them.

Trent laughed then, wet and unexpected. It was nothing like Trent usually sounded, this one bitter and forced. “No you’re not,” he said, decisive.

Adam looked up to the sky, phone still pressed to his ear. Desperately, he tried to come up with something to say in response. 

“I am,” he said, weakly. And God knows it was the truth. He _was_ sorry, he was really fucking sorry, then. 

“But you’re right, I guess,” he continued. “I can’t do this anymore. It’s not like we were taking this seriously, right?” And that was the truth, too, but maybe not all of it. _We_ , he said, too cowardly to say _you_.

Trent let out a sob at that, took a breath like he was gonna say something else, something more, but all that came out was, “Okay.” Another breath, shaky. “Okay.”

The call went dead then, and Adam never did figure out what it was Trent was going to say. It was still snowing outside, hard, but then it really was just him out in the Yard, shivering harder and hurting deeper than before. He exhaled, watched his breath curl out in front of him under the glow of a streetlight, and headed back inside, not thinking about Trent, halfway across the country, probably still crying enough for the both of them.

—

He wakes with a start, one night, the blanket over him suddenly too hot.

He can’t remember what he was dreaming about, only that it involved Trent. Something about the mountains, something about Switzerland, something about winning. His heart is pounding, and he rolls out of bed, mouth dry.

In the night, the house is eerily quiet, though he can hear the waves crashing in the distance, the whistling of the wind through the porch screen slightly open. When he goes downstairs to get himself a glass of water, he catches Trent’s hat still on the couch, his laptop open at the kitchen table. The throw blanket on the couch rumpled. The two controllers plugged into the Xbox.

Trent’s made himself comfortable here despite it all, in a way only Trent knows how. Trent burrowed himself under Adam’s skin years ago, and Adam’s suddenly not sure he ever left.

It’s been over a week now, and he doesn’t know how much longer he’s going to have this, whatever ‘this’ is. 

—

Adam finished freshman year. 

He won World Juniors, won the Beanpot, made it to the Frozen Four. He kissed guys and he kissed girls in the dark corners of parties too big for one dorm room, lost in the national championship semifinal, and nearly failed his expos class.

He went home. He skated at Flames camp. He drank, a lot. 

He didn’t call Trent.

—

He hopes he’s not imagining the way Trent looks at him, too.

In the laundry room, perched on the drier as Adam loads it. In the gym, backs against the wall as they catch their breath after sprints on the turf. In the cereal aisle, watching Adam visibly and embarrassingly hesitate between the healthy cereal and the Lucky Charms.

The one time he’s able to pinpoint it, he catches Trent’s gaze on him as he puts on an old USA shirt from U18’s after they go swimming at dusk. It’s the perfect mixture of nostalgia and longing, written clearly on his face in the fading light.

Adam understands.

—

Being in Buffalo again was bittersweet. He remembered the city well enough from draft day, elation and the taste of success. But being here again for World Juniors this time meant the possibility of failure as well. 

From the concourse, he watched Trent from the corner of his eye, leaning down to press his lips against a beautiful girl who was nearly a foot shorter than him, pressed close. 

The rest of the guys whistled, and Adam saw the way he blushed red as he pulled back and walked towards them. 

“How’d your ugly mug land a smoke like that?” Will said teasingly, dodging the punch Trent halfheartedly swung his way. 

As the bus pulled away from the rink, the tournament, the future, and glory all wide open in front of him for the taking again, all he could think about was the past. Lights of low rise buildings reflected in the window amidst the hushed clamor of downtown Buffalo, and in his mouth the taste of sadness. A hotel hallway, a wrinkled dress shirt, two kids, on top of the world, being pulled apart by two cities, two different lives.

And now, a girl, petite and flawless. He wondered if Trent tasted the same, or if the taste of her strawberry lip gloss washed everything else away. 

_That used to be me,_ he thought, and closed his eyes.

—

Miles of beach stretch out around them, sand still warm from the morning. 

Next to where he’s sitting with legs outstretched, Trent is lying on his stomach with his head turned towards him, soaking up the last remaining rays of sun. He isn’t getting tanner, never has and probably never will, and instead the freckles on his back have multiplied in the days he’s been here. 

“Trent,” he says, watching the way he opens his eyes slowly. 

“Did you love her?” he asks.

Trent seems unfazed, the way he has every time Adam’s asked a question like this out of the blue. He visibly pauses though, thinks for a second.

“I did, I think,” Trent says slowly. He doesn’t ask who Adam means. “I’m sorry if that’s not the answer you were looking for.”

Adam looks down, at bright blue eyes blinking up at him, and swallows past the lump in his throat. 

“Were you in love with her?” he asks instead.

Something in Trent’s expression softens then, and he reaches out, brushes a hand against the seam of Adam’s shorts. Barely there, but there, nonetheless. 

“No,” he says, and lets his hand fall. “I was a little hung up on someone else, I think.”

Adam exhales, and looks away. 

—

The summer after sophomore year, the Flames offered him a contract. He told them thank you, but he needed to think about it. Then he hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and called Charlie. 

Charlie pulled up to his driveway a few hours later, and Adam got in the car. 

“Drive,” was all he said. And Charlie did. 

When they were kids, Adam and Charlie used to have sleepovers after games, and Adam used to kick Charlie whenever he was talking too much. He was grateful for Charlie’s silence then. 

“Where are we going?” he asked after about 20 minutes. Charlie was on the highway then, headed west. 

Charlie glanced at him. “I don’t fucking know, dude. You said to drive and I’m fucking driving.”

Adam exhaled. “I just needed some space and to talk to you about this,” he said. “I’m freaking out.”

“Yes,” Charlie said, amused. “I can see that.”

“How did you know,” Adam asked, heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t explain. “How did you know when you were ready to leave?” 

“You just _know,_ I guess,” Charlie said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “I dunno, it took some thought, but I kind of had to figure it out pretty fast I guess. End of the college season, Bruins were headed into playoffs and Krug just went down, you know? I was just ready, I think. I wanted to be there. Was I gonna miss my friends? Sure, but I was _good,_ and I knew it. Maybe that’s a cocky thing to say, but you gotta have that confidence. And you gotta really want it.”

“I want it,” Adam said slowly. “Our season was a disaster, though, and I don’t want people to think I’m a yuppy for jumping ship, you know?”

“It’s not about what other people think, Foxy. Fuck that. The Flames want you, and you want to be there too. It sounds like you’ve made up your mind already.” 

They were still flying down the highway, cars around them scarce. Outside the sun was setting fast, and it might’ve been time to turn around soon. 

“Besides,” Charlie added. “‘S a fresh start.”

He thought of all the things he was about to leave behind, the early morning lectures, the morning skates before the sun was up, the long bus rides, the way his fingers itched all year to pick up the phone and call someone halfway across the country. He could use a fresh start, he thought.

When they finally got back, Charlie put a hand on his shoulder as they idled in the driveway. 

“I know you’ll make the right decision, okay?” Charlie said. “Text me after.”

Two days later, Adam was on a flight to Calgary, peering down at the way Long Island disappeared in the clouds behind him.

—

“Why did you stay for your senior year?” 

Trent is watching him cut strawberries, perched on a stool at the island. He shrugs, and reaches for a piece. 

“I wasn’t ready,” he says. “I wanted one last shot.”

“You were good enough,” Adam says, dumping yogurt into the blender.

Trent gives him a half smile, and steals a few more bits before Adam bats his hand away gently and scoops the rest of them into the smoothie mix. 

“I guess it’s not always about being good enough,” he says. “I needed to be 100% sure, this time.” 

_‘This time’_ , he said, and Adam swallows. Something about the way he looks at Adam through his lashes makes him think that suddenly, they’re not talking about college anymore. 

Adam watches the way the berries stain Trent’s lips red, and wants.

—

He didn’t see the hit coming.

One second he was chipping the puck off the glass, watching the way Johnny flew across the ice to pick it up, and the next all the wind had been knocked out of him, an excruciating pain blooming in his knee as he felt it hit the boards. He tried to get up then, leaning as much of his weight on his stick as he could, but the intense flash of pain made him grit his teeth and stay down, knee throbbing. He lay there, on his side and clutching at his leg as the play slowed to a stop around him, wondering what the fuck he did to deserve this, in what was shaping up to be a stellar rookie year no less. 

Six months, the doctors said, out for the rest of the season. It would get better, they promised. Just rehab and physio over the summer, and maybe a lifetime of being careful on it. The last part they didn’t say, not outright, but Adam knew. 

He didn’t cry, at least not in the waiting room as the team doctors finalized his results. That was later, when he hobbled to the car on his stupid fucking crutches, where Gio was waiting for him with the saddest look on his face. It might’ve been Gio’s pity, or his own sadness and frustration, or the fear that it would never get better, or a combination of it all, that made him break down once he got in the passenger seat. 

That was his first major injury, and Gio understood, pulling him in close and letting him cry into his shoulder. He probably should’ve been more embarrassed by it, but it was like all the stress and emotions from the hardest season of his life came pouring out, and once he started he couldn’t stop. 

At the end of U18 year, on the last day of school, Adam cried in the basement of Trent’s billet house. Trent held him then, promised that the future would be just as good as the last two years were. 

Now, his captain was holding him too, but it wasn’t the same. Not even close.

He cried himself out, eventually, and was left with just a bone deep exhaustion, wanting nothing more than a handful of painkillers and to pass out for a day or two. 

“Let’s go home,” Gio said softly, like he was talking to a child.

As he started the car, Adam checked his phone, wiping away the last of the tears clinging to his lashes. Amidst all the messages, one caught his eye. 

_Saw the hit. Sorry,_ the text said. From Freddy, little fish and heart emojis still next to his name. _Get well soon._

If he had any tears left, they surely would’ve come then.

—

“Wisconsin was far,” Adam says. 

The house is still much farther down along the shore, so small in the distance he can hardly see it from where they’re stopped along the beach. The sun is setting now, red and crimson splashing the sky. Neither of them make a move to keep walking.

Trent turns to look at him, face unreadable. 

“So is Calgary,” he says.

When he looks away again, Adam’s eyes trace the dots of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He feels a pang in his chest, and it hurts. More than he thought it would.

—

Over the summer, his parents drove him to and from rehab and the gym, and he got better. Days and days of gruelling exercises, ones that sometimes reduced him to tears again, paid off, and soon he was back on the ice with a brace and a bright yellow no contact jersey.

When training camp started, Matty offered him a room in his house, and Adam accepted it gratefully. And a few days in, he was cleared to skate without the brace, full contact. 

At the house that night, Matt cracked open two beers, handing one to Adam. 

“To a full recovery,” he said, tipping his bottle at him and taking a swig as Adam took a long pull of his own.

An hour or so later and a few beers in, Matt caught him staring at the old pictures on the walls, perfectly straight above the stairwell.

“You miss him, huh?” he asked, and Adam startled. 

“Who?”

Matt rolled his eyes, taking the empty bottle from his hand. It was probably a good time to stop now anyway if he wanted to function tomorrow at camp. 

“Don’t play stupid with me, Foxy. Trent. Freddy. T Freddy Forty-two. Fredman. F—”

“How did you know?” Adam said loudly, cutting him off.

Matt rolled his eyes again. “You guys weren’t subtle at all. We all knew, dude.”

Adam took a second to be horrified at the amount of people who apparently were aware of his constant heart eyes and lovesick faces. 

“But—” he stuttered. “But you guys— no one said anything! Not a single chirp about it!”

Matt’s expression softened then, and he reached out with a socked foot to kick Adam in the shin gently. 

“Everyone could see how gone you were for each other,” he said. “It was gross, obviously, but, I dunno, we didn’t wanna fuck it up.”

“You mean how gone _I_ was for _him_ ,” Adam said, still a little bit in shock.

Matt looked at him quizzically. “No,” he said slowly. “Trent was— God. Listen. I’ve known Trent for a long time, Foxy. And Jesus, I’d _never_ ever seen him like that with anyone. And I know how he is, trust me. It used to frustrate me too how he was always so _flippant_ about everything. But if there was one thing outside of hockey he was serious about, it was you.”

Adam closed his eyes before Matt could finish, couldn’t bear to see the way Matt was looking at him. He felt nauseous, for some reason, and when he opened his eyes again his vision was swimming, not from the alcohol.

“I’m sorry.” Matt’s voice was almost a whisper. “I didn’t— Christ. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Adam shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said, just as quietly. He checked his phone. “It’s late.”

Matt nodded, and stood up to follow him up the stairs. 

—

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Trent’s voice startles him in the quiet of the house. Trent is on the living room floor, hand around the neck of a bottle. He sounds like he’s well on his way to drunk again but tired, too. “What I said earlier, on the beach.”

“No, it’s okay,” Adam says, sliding off the couch to slump next to him, and gently takes the drink out of Trent’s hand. He sets it on the table next to his own. “I know what you meant.”

Trent tips his head back against the couch, looking away. 

“I didn’t mean that things have to be the same now as they were all those years ago. I just meant that I don’t know if they are.” 

Adam looks over at him, and reaches out to put a hand on the back of Trent’s neck, the way he always used to, feeling the hair tickle his palms and Trent visibly relax under his touch. 

It’s a while before Trent speaks again. 

“I don’t know if they are,” he says again, then rolls his head along the couch cushion to look at Adam, eyes clear. “But I think if they were, we’d do it better this time.”

“Yeah,” Adam agrees, slides his hand across to pull Trent in by his shoulder, feeling the way he sighs as he rests his head in the crook of Adam’s neck. “I think so, too.”

—

On TV, in front of a national audience, he saw Trent cry for the first time. Ugly sobs hidden in his glove, shoulders shaking as Sean stood on his toes to try and hug him. From the corner of his screen, Tyler skated up to him, put a hand on Trent’s back as he shielded him from the cameras, circling like vultures. Then, the camera panned to the other end of the ice, gloves and sticks littered across the ice, trophy high up in the air, hoisted by 20 pairs of hands.

Adam never made it to the national championship, crashing out in his first year with an stinging loss to Duluth in the semis, but he could imagine the pain Trent must’ve been feeling right then. They had lost in playoffs this year too, came one win short of advancing to the second round, and while he hadn’t cried, he remembered sitting motionless in his stall, before the reporters descended on him. 

The cameras came back as Trent straightened up then, C stitched onto his chest. He saw the sadness etched in his face, his red, swollen eyes behind his helmet, the tremble of his bottom lip as he tried to pull himself together to salute the crowd. One last time. 

If he had been there, he would’ve hugged him, held him as he cried. Instead, on his couch, he thought about the only time he’d ever heard Trent do it before this, over the phone on a December night, and felt his heart clench at the thought of Trent doing it alone, last time. Because of him, no less.

A month later, Trent graduated, and he saw the picture on Instagram, his whole family surrounding him, proud as he had ever seen them. In the sun, cap and gown and all, Trent smiled wide and genuine at the camera, cheeks flushed. He didn’t know how long he stared at the picture, only that when he dreamt that night, he dreamt of that smile, pressed against his skin like it used to be. 

Then, Trent signed with the Bruins, as expected.

He was on the bike when he heard the news, still resting his knee whenever he could. 

_Top NCAA free agent Trent Frederic stays loyal, signs with Boston Bruins._

His thumb hovered over their text conversation, buried by years of others. The last thing in it was a measly _Thanks,_ from his own injury years ago. 

_Congrats,_ he sent. 

This time, it was Trent’s turn to be short, typing his own ‘ _Thanks’_ in return almost immediately.

Adam sighed, and put his phone away. 

—

“You have a lot of questions,” Trent says.

Adam pushes his sunglasses higher up on his nose, purposefully doesn’t look at Trent. He imagines Trent’s face is as carefully unreadable as it’s been since he’s gotten here, that he’s simply squinting ahead in the sun as they walk past rows and rows of stores and shops, always too stubborn to put on sunglasses of his own.

“They’re things I’ve been thinking about for a while now,” he says in response. “Maybe things I should’ve asked a long time ago.” 

Next to him, Trent doesn’t slow down, but he can feel Trent turn his gaze on him. 

“Is that why you asked me to come?” He asks. “Because you thought I had answers?’

Adam hesitates. “I don’t know,” he admits after a second. It’s the truth; he still doesn’t have a clue why he asked Trent to come, only that it felt right, in the moment.

Trent doesn’t say anything after that, and they walk back to the house in silence, summer heat beating relentlessly down on them.

—

They played each other twice, Trent’s first year. 

It was weird every time without fail, neither of them able to look each other in the eye. 

He played like shit, the first time, his only comfort in the fact that Trent did too. 

“Get it together,” Matt said, a little angrily, chewing on his mouthguard like he had a personal vendetta against it.

The next time, they played in Boston, and Charlie took him out to dinner, after. 

“Mr. Three Points,” Charlie said. “Much needed improvement from last time we played.” 

Adam rolled his eyes. “Just for that I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Charlie laughed, and waved down the waiter, ordering an outrageously priced bottle of wine, winking at Adam as he did. 

“So,” Adam said as they waited for their food. He swirled the wine around in his glass, feeling very out of his league as he did. “How’s Trent?” He was aiming for casual, but judging by the way Charlie raised his eyebrows, he had missed it by a mile.

“Fine,” he said hesitantly. “He’s figuring it out. Settling in. He’s still— he’s still Trent.”

Adam nodded, swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Will you—” he paused, coughed into his hands. “Will you tell him I said hi?” 

Charlie looked at him, scrutinizing in the dim light of the restaurant. Adam took another sip of his wine just to have something to do with his hands. 

“Okay,” Charlie relented finally, and Adam was relieved he didn’t push the subject further. “I will.”

—

Trent gets the mail and the newspaper after his runs now. He does the dishes, puts the groceries away, does laundry sporadically. 

He hums in the shower, loud enough Adam can hear it with the door cracked open. 

He takes Adam’s hats when he can’t find his own, drives Adam’s car sometimes, when Adam’s too lazy to take them to town.

He’s learning to make breakfast, too. And one morning, Adam comes downstairs to find Trent pouring batter into a pan, and tries to hide his surprise. 

Trent smiles at him over his shoulder, wearing nothing but shorts, flour on his cheek, his chest, his arms. Trent waves him away, when he comes over to help, and gestures towards the blender, ingredients for the smoothie Adam made two mornings ago already set out. On the table, a mug of coffee sits next to the paper. Trent doesn’t drink coffee, and he sure as hell doesn’t read the paper.

The pancakes come out a little burnt, but they’re chocolate chip peanut butter, protein pancakes, just the way Adam likes them. 

Trent grins at him over a stack of them, a dash of syrup at the corner of the mouth, and Adam has to resist the urge to kiss it away. 

It’s almost everything he dreamed of, before.

But then, he'll catch the imperceptible hesitation in Trent's hands as they both reach for another pancake at the same time, the way he opens and closes his mouth with a small shake of his head, hiding thoughts that Adam desperately wants to hear, the look in his eyes as he watches Adam clear the table for them both, sad and sweet and mostly— distant.

And then he'll remember. Almost, but not quite.

—

Trent went to the NHL awards, and didn’t win the Calder. 

No one expected him to, as it was a surprise he even got nominated. But he _was_ good this year, and _that_ fact surprised absolutely no one.

Some hotshot first overall pick won instead, looking all the 18 years old he was as he stood up there, stuttering his way through his speech. 

The camera panned to Trent in the audience as the kid spoke, and the smile on Trent’s face was as genuine as anything. That was just the kind of person he was, Adam thought. Someone who felt for others so fiercely, someone so empathetic, someone so _real._

It was the little things like that moment, that made him regret it most. Throwing him away, or more accurately, letting him walk away. 

—

That night, Adam presses Trent up against the fridge after dinner and kisses him. They’re both completely sober, and he has no excuse, except that he wants it. He’s wanted it this entire time, wanted it for years, so badly he can’t stand it anymore.

Trent kisses him back, mouth hot under his own, not tentatively at all. They fall back into things the way they always had been, smoothly and perfectly. And there’s no hesitation in the way Trent lets Adam guide him up the stairs, mouth never leaving his. There’s no ineloquence in the way he gets Adam’s shirt off, in the way they fall to the bed, tangled in each other still. And there is no single thing in the world better than the way he says Adam’s name, like it’s something beautiful, something holy. 

And Adam’s not sure he deserves that, to be touched the way Trent touches him, like he’s heavenly and pure. Because there’s nothing heavenly or pure about the way he feels Trent’s tears against his chest after, the way he only pulls him closer.

—

Before he could properly go home, he sat through hours and hours of meetings. 

When all was done a week later, he put his pen to the paper, and inked his brand new contract. No longer entry level, millions and millions a year, a long term deal.

“I love Calgary,” he said earnestly to the reporters that waited outside the office. “I love it here. The team, the people, the city. I want to be a Flame forever.” 

“I don’t wanna change a thing,” he added. And that part was not quite true.

 

—

There used to be just inches between them during those late nights wrapped in the sheets in Adam’s billet house. There were 1,129 miles between Madison and Boston. Then there were 2,579 miles between Calgary and Boston. Now, there’s 3 feet of space between Adam’s left hand and Trent’s right, wrapped in the sheets in Adam’s house again, and Adam still has no idea what he’s supposed to say. 

—

Trent called, once.

The night of the awards, Adam didn’t pick up, as it was nearly two in the morning. He was probably hammered, anyway. Likely an accident. 

Trent didn’t leave a voicemail. 

Adam didn’t call back.

—

When he wakes the next morning, he’s dimly aware of the blinds pulled carefully closed and the space next to him in the bed cold and empty. And then he hears sounds coming from downstairs. 

He jolts awake then, grabs a pair of sweatpants from the ground and rushes downstairs still shirtless, hair a mess.

In the light of the foyer, Trent is lacing up his shoes, bags packed, and Adam is hit with a sudden panic. 

“Trent,” he says frantically. “Where are you going?”

Trent looks up at him, and stands up, grabbing his bags as well. And, _fuck,_ when did he even have time to pack?

“Home,” he says simply.

“Why?” Adam asks. He doesn’t know why he’s freaking out right now, but suddenly the slow pass of the past 2 weeks feels far too fast. 

“I can’t do this,” Trent says, shaking his head. “I can’t fucking do this. Not again.”

Adam opens his mouth, but Trent cuts him off. 

“Why did you ask me to come, Adam?” 

Trent used to call him Foxy, never Adam. Trent used to be a little crazy, a little rough sometimes, never this gentle like he was afraid Adam might run. Trent used to be emotionally shallow, too caught up in life to consider the reasons behind the things Adam did, never this perceptive or demanding of answers.

Trent used to be a lot of things. They used to be a lot of things.

“I don’t know,” Adam says, and it’s still the truth. He didn’t know, back when he first picked up his phone, but he thinks he might know now. “I missed you,” he says, and that— that’s as truthful as it gets, as raw and as honest as he’s ever been with Trent.

“Tell me to stay,” Trent says, bottom lip trembling. Adam wants to reach out and touch, smooth his thumb across it, kiss him quiet. 

“Tell me to stay this time,” Trent says again, eyes clear despite the unshed tears. “Tell me, and I’ll stay.”

When they were kids all those years ago, Trent used to never listen to anyone, not even Adam. Not when they were just being idiots wrestling for the Xbox controller, not when they were _together_ , in whatever sense of the word that applied to what they had, not when they would find themselves pressed too close in places too risky to be doing what they did. Trent didn’t care what anyone else thought, was his own boy then and his own man now, and maybe that was the reason Adam fell so hard in love with him way back when.

And yes, Trent’s different now, that much he’s learned. It’s hard to piece together the Trent in front of him with the same kid who had cried when he told Adam he was leaving, who was too afraid to say what he truly wanted was for Adam to tell him not to. And it’s hard to recognize himself now as the same kid who was too scared and too blind to see that Trent loved him, that he loved Trent too. Maybe they needed a little time, but even if underneath it all it’s still the same ‘Freddy’ he fell in love with, Trent’s grown, and so has Adam. And maybe that’s the reason Adam’s still in love with him now.

It takes two strides to reach the door, where Trent has his hand on the handle, still slightly ajar. It takes a second to reach for it over Trent’s shoulder, and push it shut behind him. And then it takes every ounce of courage he’s ever had to put his hand over Trent’s, to look him in the eyes.

“Stay,” he says.

Trent drops his bags then, lets Adam back him against the door.

For the first time, Adam says, “I love you,” forehead pressed right to Trent’s. “And it scared the shit out of me then and it still scares me, now, but I don’t think I ever stopped.” It’s been a long time coming.

Then he kisses him, softly, for just a second.

He pulls back, and Trent’s looking at him with wide eyes, smile on his face, looking just like he did the first time in the basement when they were 16 and had no idea what was coming for them. If he could go back know, he thinks, he’d tell those two kids who were too tangled up in each other and hockey to stop and think about anything else, to be patient. Because the feeling in his stomach as he really looks at Trent for what feels like the first time, the feeling of everything falling together where he knows it’s all going to work out, is worth every bit of trouble he went through to get here.

“Stay,” he says again, running his thumb across Trent’s lip like he wanted to before, so gently.

“Okay,” Trent says. “Okay.”

—

It was strange, being away from Calgary after a season that felt so long and left him bruised and tired. Three years, and it never got easier. It was a change from being in a city where he gets recognized on every street corner to a quiet house on the shore. Too quiet. 

Here, there were 5 bedrooms and no one to occupy any one of them but his own. The kitchen was silent when he heated his lunch for the day, leftovers from the night before, save for the drip of the leaky faucet he hadn't gotten around to fixing yet. And when he took his plate outside with a beer, the porch was covered in a fine sheen of sand, like no one had stepped out there for a while, grainy and rough against his bare feet.

Inside, he rinsed off his plate and left it in the sink, dirty dishes starting to pile again. He would have to get around to those soon, he thought. In the doorway of his enormous living room, he stopped, suddenly, his eye catching on the old photographs on the mantle in a way it hadn’t for years. Something about the light, probably, that made his gaze land on an old one from years ago. 

It was one he remembered clearly. The ‘98 NTDP group, clustered around the Lockwood family pool at the end of the year. He could still taste the relief of feeling like he finally made it after the two hardest and most rewarding years of his life, the suffocating joy of being with his best friends in the world, but mostly the underlying sadness of leaving them soon for a world unknown, for bigger things for some of them, for possible disappointment for others. In the two years he was there, making a name for himself in an unfamiliar state, he grew to love things he never thought he would, things he never thought he would miss so much. 

So many things, but one person, in particular, who in the photo has his arm around Adam's neck in a headlock, hair wet and flopping in his face, freckled cheeks red and grin wide. He remembered slippery skin warmed by afternoon sun, the chlorine scent and artificial taste. Abruptly, under the film of dust clearer than ever under the light streaming through the window, the photo felt distant, surreal. In the years it had been, it hurt still, like a phantom limb, and he felt the familiar ache tug at his chest. 

And it had been a while. Four years, to be exact, but for some reason, it only took one heartbeat, one split second, one a lapse of judgement.

He picked up the phone.

**Author's Note:**

> this is the longest thing i've ever written omf  
> anyway adam actually did ask trent to prom and trent said the condition was 300 rt's. [it only got 8 :(](https://twitter.com/foxyclean/status/553385766349328385)  
> do i think adam fox is gonna leave harvard after this year? prob not. do i think trent frederic will stay for his senior year? who knows. i dont tell the future but theyre both nasty at hockey so we'll see how that ends up.  
> EDIT: clearly I cannot predict the future none of these things actually happen and Adam gets traded to Carolina and Trent leaves and Adam stays. Whatever not bitter.  
> these two are going to be reunited at world juniors this year so i tried real hard to finish it before then.  
> tfreddy and foxy clean forever. 98s never die. i love ntdp legends


End file.
